When Roses Are Blue
by Vyudali
Summary: America believes being bruised and bloody is not so bad if it makes others happy. Unknowingly, Russia takes his turn.


_**A/N:** I wanted to try something darker, so I apologize if the writing is lacking or not on-par with the mood (or vise-versa) I'm trying to convey. Or if this overall sucks. Not every day I write less than a 3k word first chapter._

_It's also well to note that R__ussia is not an evil psychopath in this. It may seem that way at first, but that's not how this is going to go. Here we go . . ._

* * *

_There is no coming to consciousness without pain._

_-Carl Jung_

On normal days he could take it.

Meetings would end as they often did: active yet useless. Talks, fantasies at this point, of peace masking second intentions. His temper remained cold and silent like his land, just as the last footstep left hearing range to signal the end of a nonsensical trip. His car would be waiting and that would be the end of that. The only worry left on his mind would be the long flight home, and eventual evidence of his sister's rounds through his stuff. Having grown used to the intrusion it wouldn't matter. He'd be slightly terrified of her continuous presence, but after finding she'd gone home – as per usual – Russia would collapse on his bed to dream the awful languid feeling in his body away.

Months later he would return to their grouping excited for the show that was to come.

His allies were strange, but playful and entertaining. Fights, petty words shot back and forth, the occasional gossip of who had slept with whom. Whether the coupling had been a mistake or not, what followed after certainly kept him interested through the mild, rare inputs of useful information.

Yes, watching them had always been fun – at least, it had been until recently.

_He_ caused it.

_He _kept at it.

Russia couldn't stand _him_.

And finally, Russia couldn't _take it _anymore.

He made his move after their meeting when the target left quickly with mentions of a burger joint. In character of him, but just like every other time no one cared. To Russia this was simply a sign that he would get away with it.

Because they were in America this time.

Russia stepped off the elevator and followed him. The hallways were clear of witnesses; vacant in both bodies and sound save for a small echo of a ringing phone. Someone should get that, he thought, but it seemed the secretary to this floor was out to lunch. For once their meeting had not lasted until sundown, and for that he is thankful. The ringing was welcoming, in a way. Whoever was on the other end would forever be ignorant to the blood they might have prevented if the secretary had not disappeared. Russia smiled, then felt his chest tighten at the sight of him only a dozen feet way.

The night before he'd been conflicted. Russia, the human part, wanted friends, not enemies and yet there he had sat, downing a glass of vodka in front of his hotel's television, seated dazed on a flat couch imagining the many ways he would beat the living hell out of him. That did not happen often, despite what others thought. Bosses were a tricky thing that most nations knew had no personal impact on their human sides, but that did not stop others from creating a cliché in his unorthodox ways. He wished to change that, tried so hard to, but in the end his demons took over.

_I want friends. Friends are good. But him…he is not one. Never will be. I do not want him._

He felt vaguely aware of nearing the security camera's blind spot; feeling the glass eye edging people to commit wrong roving over him- then gone. Burning sensations of knowing his chance had come and grabbing thick, soft hair and dragging the body attached to it into a nearby office. Empty, to his pleasure. There was a cry somewhere but he paid no mind as he reached into his coat and pulled out his pipe.

What came next was a blur, but even as the phone's echoing ring ceased and the screams faded into silence Russia would say he'd had a fun time. All that was left was the visual of that blonde idiot lying blue and red – no longer yellow or white – on the carpeted floor, a rather large mess of his own blood tainting its official hue. The scene was pathetic and oh so very satisfying - to be finally free of the beast.

Blood was everywhere.

The last evidence he could ascertain of his explosive anger for justification and eventual leave of a blind thirst for blood was the sanguine liquid on his gloves. It glistened from the yellow light permeating the air; a holy lie if Russia ever saw one, to have purification touch his crime.

Even breaths escaped noisily to cloud around him, ceasing the haze of red. His fingers uncurled, then coiled around his scarf and fully around his neck, so no ends would show signs of what transpired that moment in the future. No one could know or he would risk war. But would that matter now? He wondered. America never took attacks lightly, although the absence of home soil involvement might keep him under the radar. Qualms- personal grudges between the personifications were petty in their modern world. Russia would have to count on pride for America's silence.

His feet moved just as America groaned behind him.

"Are you – ," he coughed. A thick mixture of blood and spit had made its way down the blonde's lip. "_Fuck_….ah, d-done?"

Russia felt his nose wrinkle. "What?"

America's neck, now ornamenting a purple curving splotch of decay below his chin and down his collarbone where the white of his shirt used to be, stretched only an inch, too painful for the nation's eyes to meet him. "If you're done c-can you do me a solid and lock the door on your way out?"

Remaining still Russia, almost shaking as the demons returned with America's nonchalance, watched him ease to his knees. Pain swept his face and past, one arm shielding his stomach before his body met the floor and had the audacity to chuckle. "_Shit_. Ahah… you really don't hold back. Not that I expected you to."

_Expect._

America flinched when he turned. Whatever mild satisfaction Russia might have fed off of that reaction quickly died when the blonde nation took a breath and closed his eyes, slumping against the carpeted floor –_ ready_ for a predicted beating Russia had no intention of giving but would not deny he considered. Now that his rage had descended, however, and his violets roamed the body he'd marred only one question roved: Where were the kicks? The curses and threats of revenge? Russia had expected at least one spat at his communist past. Not…._nothing. _

Annoyed, he thrust the man inches from his nose, Russia's pale blondes ghosting above dazed blue eyes. America winced, but did nothing else. Limp against what held him, his shirt smearing more taint down his sides and chest, Russia saw a willing victim.

America's eyes never truly met anyone's because of a barrier, but with it gone – thrust somewhere during his rampage and most likely broken beyond repair – those eyes guarded themselves in black. They still wouldn't look at him.

Russia felt his lips open and breath leave him, the sound muddled to a soft whisper.

"Have you done this before?"

His hands tensed the longer he witnessed the one he hated most surrender his will, and when an involuntary reaction did not quell his curiosity he waited patiently for the man to answer on his own. He didn't, so Russia shook him and hissed the question again.

America said nothing.

Frustrated, quite frankly tired of dealing with the stubborn child of a nation, Russia growled a curse and headed for the door, releasing his captive to fall harshly onto the now soiled carpet with a grunt and bout of heavy coughs. The Russian was half-way into the hall when his ears caught a silent whisper, almost inaudible if the room and hall were not just as quiet.

"I hope you're the last one."

The door slammed.

It had ended like this.


End file.
